


Da Capo

by daphnerunning



Category: Kamen Rider OOO
Genre: Desperate Sex, Grief, M/M, Not really a threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he thinks the cold, broken medal is judging him, that he can hear Ankh sneering at him for being so weak, for clutching at this. Sometimes, Eiji knows that’s crazy, that he’s probably crazy by now, and all he can do is laugh at the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Da Capo

The first time is a mistake.

Eiji hadn’t thought to steel himself against seeing that familiar face, looking at him with someone else’s eyes. He hadn’t expected to see the longing there either, or hear the catch in the detective’s voice when he catches Eiji’s stare.

It’s a mistake when they end up in a place that was once a red-draped nest, when tomorrow’s underwear hit the floor along with a shiny badge, and Eiji leaves the next morning without saying goodbye to Hina. He hitchhikes his way to Osaka and takes a ferry to Shanghai, watching the birds soar lazily overhead, and clenches the railing until his knuckles pop.

The second time, they’re both drunk, but he’d promised to come “home” for Christmas. It’s not the same, hollow and aching, but Eiji has thought of himself as hollow for longer than he’d thought of himself as OOO. It’s new to Izumi Shingo, that much is obvious, but they’re both full of sake and desperation when they make their way to the beach, intending to make a fire and winding up colder than ever, December waves crashing over both of them and spilling salty and stinging into their biting, licking mouths.

The third, the fourth, the tenth time they know what they’re doing, and no one is surprised. He’s been on walkabout through Australia, and Shingo tastes like rice and fish and home, and nothing like what he wants. Eiji doesn’t know what his own mouth tastes like, but he knows it isn’t what Shingo wants either, not from the way he’s panting angrily, shoving in bruisingly hard.

It should feel good to feel a man inside him again, and if he forgets who it is, it does. If he closes his eyes, lets himself be forced over a table, and remembers, it works.

Ankh is fucking him hard and brutal, and Shingo is fucking Ankh, and Ankh has been dead for half a decade. Anyone who says He’s not dead, just gone doesn’t need to talk to Eiji anymore, not when they say it as if he should be grateful that all he has to bury is a broken medal and the certainty that he’s letting Ankh down every day he fails.

Sometimes he thinks the cold, broken medal is judging him, that he can hear Ankh sneering at him for being so weak, for clutching at this. Sometimes, Eiji knows that’s crazy, that he’s probably crazy by now, and all he can do is laugh at the idea.

By now, this isn’t the only man Eiji has let pin him to a wall and bite his neck, but they’re usually drifters like him, with their own anger issues and gnawing losses. Sometimes they feel closer to what he wants, a creature of nothing but desire wrapped up in loathing, seeking dominance over someone, anyone.

But sometimes he needs those hands, those same hands that had grabbed his hair and forced him to his knees, that had clutched him close with the tenacity of talons, and he’s not too proud, but too afraid what his heart would do if he asked Shingo to use a stick of kohl on his eyes for just one night. 

It’s some kind of the basest irony that only now does he understand a craving, a desire so strong that it would have kept the purple medals at bay for the rest of eternity, now that they’ve destroyed everything he hadn’t been able to admit he needed.

Shingo’s breath is wet and harsh on his ear, and they both breathe the name of a dead man when they drive each other to a bitter, empty end. Even that is better, just for a fleeting starburst of a moment, than living next to the blank space between them.

Every time is a mistake, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to stop.


End file.
